Return and Deliver
by Hopeless377
Summary: He returns keep his promise to deliver his letter to them and what they find waiting for them.  this maybe a prequel to a story havent decided
1. Chapter 1

It was strange. Somehow he thought it would be difficult or at the very least feel different. But, it just gave a sense of déjà vu. Conner Lassiter stood across the street from the place that he had spent 16 years of his life at. His parent's home and inside that house were the people who condemned him to be unwound. These were the people who had raised him only to abandon him because they couldn't understand him. But all the resentment that he used to have for his parents were gone, if anything they were the ones that opened the door for his future. Now he had returned to keep a promise he made to an old women that took care of the first safe house he stayed in before continuing on in his escape. Sonia.

She had made every AWOL unwound write a letter to someone they cared about before shuffling them off to the next safe house making each promise to come back for it if they survived to their 18th birthday. Conner was now 19 and having waited a year after his 18th birthday just to be safe, he collected the letter. That is how he found himself standing across the street of his childhood home, contemplating how to deliver the letter he wrote 3 years ago and a second letter he had wrote on the way here.

Conner had cleaned himself up as best he could by shaving (being careful around the scar on his face) and cutting his hair so it hung just lower than his ears. He wore one of the few sets of clothing that wasn't army surplus and made sure to wash up so he looked present able. This was it, he knew that whether or not his family recognized him didn't matter, this was the end of his running. By delivering this letter Conner felt it would bring closure to the story of his survive and lay to rest the last of his hatred, allowing him to move on with his life.

Taking a deep breath and smoothing the invisible wrinkles of his shirt, he walked across the street. Luckily it was still early afternoon so Conner didn't have to worry about his brother answering the door. He choose the door over leaving the letters in the mail box because he wanted to personally hand them over, of course that being if someone was home. He hesitated before knocking on the door. The sound seemed harsh for flesh against wood, but he stood his ground and waited. There were some shuffling sounds on the inside that had Conner fidgeting with the letters before the door opened to reveal his mother.

She seemed to scrutinize him before pulling the door closer to her persons and worked on putting the door between them. "Can I help you with something?"

Conner flinched slightly at the defensive tone, realizing that she didn't recognize him left a stinging sensation in his chest, but straightened to take his full height to address her. Mrs. Lassiter visibly shrunk under him and refused to meet his gaze for longer than a few seconds. "I'm sorry to bother you, is Mr. Lassiter home?"

She seemed to stiffen at the mention of his father's name. She must not have thought he knew them, but now it was obvious that she was not comfortable with him knowing their name. She didn't respond verbally, just shook her head 'no'. He sighed deeply. He hadn't meant to scare her, but his appearance was working against him. He held out the letters to her while she shrunk away from him. "Could you please deliver these to him? Read them together as a couple when your son isn't around. Well, I guess you could read them while he was there but that's your choice. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

Shakily, she took the letters from him and vanished back inside the house so fast that Conner barely registered the letters left his hand before the door slammed shut in his face. Blinking for a moment, he backed down the walk way taking one last look at the house. It didn't feel like a place he knew anymore, like the letter was the last string that connected him to the place and without it it was just a house. Reaching the street Conner breathed a sigh of relief that the whole thing was finally over and he could go home. Back to his really home surrounded by thousands of AWOL unwounds, where his back is covered by his friends, and back into the arms of his two loves, Risa and their daughter.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a long day when Mr. Lassiter returned home. A day full of complaining clients and far too short breaks. All he wanted to do now was greet his wife and son, have a good meal, and veg on the couch watching the news. Instead when he walked in that afternoon he was nearly barreled over by his wife rushing to him. Not sure what was going on and being a man, he thought she was just really excited to see him, so he hugged her back. Unfortunately when he did so his wife broke down in sobs clinging to him for support while she spun a tale, speaking to rapidly that there was no way to understand her.

With a still clinging wife he slowly walked towards the living room and guided her to a seat on the couch. After a bit of persuasion, he had detached his wife from his persons and was kneeling before her try to get the story straight. At first her hysteria had him thinking something happened to Vincent, their son, but then that would beg the question why she hadn't called him earlier. So that was out. Then he had the idea that a family member had died, but realized both her parents had passed and there was no reason for her to be this upset without calling him with such news. At a loss for what was wrong he waited until her sobs turn to whimpers before inquiring about what happened.

"Honey, what's wrong?" He asked his wife in the gentlest voice he could muster. She squeaked and looked up at him with such desperation that it seemed that she was about to break.

"Oh, John!" She almost wailed before burrowing into her hands. Hiccupping and crying she pointed to the kitchen. Quietly he followed his wife's pointed finger and found a stack of papers thrown on the table. Gathering them up, he went back to his emotionally devastated wife. Upon walking back into the living room, he took a seat next to his wife and put a reassuring arm around her. "John please, just burn the thing! Don't read it!"

But her pleads fell on deaf ears as John read over the faded pages of tear smeared words, his face losing color by the second. Word after word were thrown at him, first angry and full of resentment then soft and sad from the reciting of memories. Lines flowed together to weave the pain of its writers soul into each sentence, telling a tale of betrayal. But what really stabbed home was the sloppy signature carved into the last page of the letter that stirred the memory of what they as parents had done. Conner Lassiter.

One by one the papers fell to the floor through the limp fingers of John Lassiter. His eyes were glazed over while tears while a small noise escaped his lips before he completely processed what he had read. This was a reminder of a time they would rather have forgotten, of the life they gave up on. His wife clung at his arm begging him to destroy the evidence of their son's attempt to survive after the world had turned on him. The tears were slow in their path down his cheeks dripping off his chin leaving new stains on the tear smudged letter. This was a horrible reminder of the guilt he thought he had forgotten and dearly wished had stayed that way. Now he looked at the papers and remembered the hurt he felt when he saw his son throw caution to the wind and dive across a highway to escape the fate John himself had dealt him. He remembered his second son's eyes when they had told him where his older brother had gone, the acquisition and distrust that gazed back at them even to this day had left scars on their hearts. But this was too much.

"Who sent this to us? Who would do such an awful thing? What cruel bastard" John nearly shouted the words as he launched to his feet, out of his wife's grasp. He stared at the letter now at his feet and ground his foot atop the papers. Hurt and guilt began to turn violent hatred toward his unwound son. He tore the now crumpled paper from beneath his feet and prepared to rip them.

The letter was snatched out of his hands before any damage could be done. Now standing between him and his wife was their remaining son Vincent, just home from school. Vincent held tightly on to the letter, his face hard and unforgiving looking at his father. In his eye was an outrageous amount of anger. He was still young but almost reached the same height as John, so he stared directly into his eyes conveying every thought running through his mind to his father. Then he shoved something against John's chest and backed away to sit in one of the chairs in the room and read the letter his brother had written. John looked over what Vincent had shoved at him.

He held the unaddressed envelope before him and took out the opened letter from inside. A photograph glided to the floor which his wife picked up and inspected while he read the letter aloud.

_To my parents,_

_If you're reading this then I hope you read my other letter first. The other letter I wrote was written when I was on the run: AWOL. I hated you, I loved you, and you made me so mad, so I wrote it and enclosed it in a letter. Now all I have to say is thank you. I may never understand how you could give up on me like that, I mean aren't parents supposed to help their kids not send them away to be unwound, but it may have given me the best chance to grow up. What happened on that highway forced me to put my life into perspective. My journey to salvation wasn't easy and left horrible scars, but I made unbreakable bonds of friendship along the way. The day you two signed those forms put me on the path to discovering my true potential and my own worth. I have done some remarkable things; some I'm proud of, some not. But that's beside the point. I came to deliver the letter I wrote when I was 16, hiding in a safe house with 3 other kids and a baby (don't ask about the baby, it's a long story) and thought to write this to show you the life that you condemned hasn't ended. That the life you created hasn't been wasted, but rather put to use. And to tell you I love you, I love you still despite everything I was put through because of you. I love you. _

_Your Son,_

_Conner _

_P.S. Tell Vincent I love him as well and to find something that's worth giving his life to achieve_

The room was quiet, letting the last echo of words died between the three. Mary eyes were dinner plates staring at her husband, waiting for some sort of reaction. Vincent flipped through the first letter, skimming it over some more and smiling at some of the memories that were retold on the pages. He pulled a photograph from his hoodies pocket, gazed longingly at it for a bit, and held it out to his father. John was slow to react, but gently took the photo from his son.

The picture shows a beautiful young lady in a wheelchair watching contently as a young man with shaggy hair and a nasty scar on one half of his face held on to a wobbly toddler trying to walk. The young lady had long brown hair pulled into a high ponytail and wore army fatigues, but despite the harsh looking sun she had a smile on. The young man wore similar clothing, his shaggy dark hair hung limply across the half of his face that was scarred, but he looked familiar. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. That was Conner's face, well part of it, but it was difficult to tell because of the difference was drastic. His eyes didn't hold the rebellion common to teenagers, he was more masculine from probably hard labor, and his smile, oh his smile, was so happy. Nothing like the Conner they knew.

"Flip it over." Vincent's voice interrupted John's evaluation of the photo. Mary had moved to stand next to him and had also be looking at the photo and jumped at the sound. He flipped over the picture; there was a tag on the back written in delicate handwriting.

_Risa and Connor playing with year old Hope._

The meaning of the words sunk in slowly. John and Mary exchanged looks before flipping the picture again and staring hopelessly at the child. Their grandchild. Hope. Neither said a word just tried to commit the face to memory. Mary was crying and John just held her, looking sadly at the child they would never meet.

Vincent watched his parents. Reveling in their despair over the son they threw away and the man they would never see. He walked out of the room taking with him both letters; he already copied the photo before showing it to his father. When he walked into his room he spotted an envelope leaning against his window. Vincent regarded the fact that very few people knew how to open his window from the outside and laughed before opening the note. Inside was a bunch of pictures; some of Conner, some of that girl Risa, and his beautiful niece hope. He was enjoying flipping through the pictures and cataloging his brothers new life when a little note fell to his lap.

_Come and I'll be waiting with open arms. Scold and I shall listen. Anytime you are in need of chance, I'm always here to listen._

A location and address was scribbled beneath the line of poetry. A smiled crept across his lips. His pulled out an empty draw in his desk and hid away the letters, the pictures, and the note. He was already looking forward to summer break.

Cause that's when his adventure begins.


End file.
